


Interface

by trip (trap)



Category: Inception (2010), Social Network (2010)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, experimental narrative, made up backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trap/pseuds/trip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer - don't own any of the characters mentioned herein for either Social Network or Inception. I'm trying to get rid of writer's block so hopefully this will pan out.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. an outline part one

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - don't own any of the characters mentioned herein for either Social Network or Inception. I'm trying to get rid of writer's block so hopefully this will pan out.

Brazilian hospitality gives them a suite of rooms in a sprawling mansion as they militarize the unconscious of one businessman and his adolescent son. The elder is accomplished relatively quickly: Cobb and Arthur go under with him while Mal monitors and it’s fully two less the standard number of sessions to teach his dreaming mind to recognize and brutally tear apart intruding consciousnesses. Some minds are like this, are blood-thirsty and savage beneath a thin veneer of civility, like a rabid animal. Arthur can’t look him in the eye after, still too new to the world of dreamshare to reconcile an awake mind’s control with his experience of its violent dream. The son is different.

Lanky yet coltish and graceful, growth still elongating his bones at such a pace that it seems he gains inches in just the few days they’ve been in his home, wearing a suit vaguely similar to Arthur’s own, Eduardo. “A birthday present,” his father intoned, grim. “If he becomes the success we hope for,” there is an emphasis on _if_ , derisive, “the service you provide will prove invaluable.”

The boy charms effortlessly and unconsciously, even as he flinches from his father’s words. Mal takes to him immediately and imperiously demands she be the first to take Eduardo under, just the two of them. Cobb indulges his fiancée; Arthur silently hopes the son does not take after the father. Half an hour later, when Mal and Eduardo wake, eyes shining, Arthur is relieved.

“Oh, oh,” Mal says. “Darling boy, Dom, you must come and see, it is marvellous,” and she lays her palm against Eduardo’s golden cheek and beams fondly into his wide, amazed eyes.

Cobb and Mal have worked for years, pioneered the field even, in dream-share, and are probably the best source of experience Arthur has ever come across on outliers. Minds that do not behave to the norm, that do not conform, most often in terrifying ways but occasionally in beautiful ones. Eduardo Saverin’s mind has no native defence, no killing instinct. His projections are benign. To stop Mal from going to the sensitive protected places of his mind, his projections will distract her – with words, with actions, with shifting the dreamscape entirely. But they won’t harm her; and when she’s changing the dreamscape into one of her fanciful beautiful worlds, they even pause to marvel and stare.

For all that it’s pleasant and strangely, remarkably reassuring to have come across a mind that does not immediately and wholly want to tear apart its intruders, it does make militarizing the boy problematic. Arthur teaches him mazes, and paradoxes, and traps. “If someone takes you under,” Arthur says, “there’s always a pre-set time, a kick. You just have to last out the intruders until the kick. If you can keep them in a maze and out of your secrets, that works just as well as killing them off.”

“I like patterns,” Eduardo says. He seems introspective, quiet and withdrawn, like he usually is around Arthur. He’s more outgoing with Mal and even friendly with Cobb. It’s only Arthur he shies from. Arthur was vaguely discomfited by this until Mal pointed out that Arthur could be a family member of the Saverin clan; the patriarch of which is unkind. “I like numbers,” Eduardo adds, almost defiant. He glances sidelong at Arthur. “Pai says numbers are for accountants, but. I like them.”

“You can use them to keep yourself safe,” Arthur says bluntly. “It’s good that you like them. They’ll help you.”

Eduardo smiles at him. It’s perhaps the first smile he’s given Arthur this entire job. Arthur surprises himself by smiling back.

They teach Eduardo to recognize when he is dreaming, and to tell the difference between a dreamer and a projection, and to configure his mind into a complex trap, a construct of Penrose steps. Sometimes Mal and Eduardo go under together alone for hours and wake up peaceful, enraptured by whatever she’s taught him, whatever they’ve built together.

“You were meant to be a dreamer,” she tells him, and strokes his hair gently from his face, takes his hand in hers, maternal. Any bounds of formality between them have dropped entirely, and it bemuses Cobb as much as it amuses Arthur.

All of them like dreaming with Eduardo, truly, as it means that they can cooperatively change details, all of them, rebuilding and remaking, adding, subtracting from the architecture of thought and not risk violent wakening by murderous projections. It’s more of what Arthur had thought dreamshare would be like when he first learned of it.

Finally, though, the job comes to an end. Mal kisses Eduardo on both cheeks, and Cobb clasps his shoulder, shakes his thin body just a little in friendly farewell. Arthur musses the kid’s hair, his first break in professionalism. Eduardo is stilting and formal until he breaks with a huge grin, for once looking his proper age. His father is gone on a business trip and can’t see to be disappointed.

Somehow it doesn’t end there. Mal gets in touch with Eduardo’s father and arranges for Eduardo to be their intern two weeks out of every summer until he graduates secondary school, fourteen days they stretch into – much longer, with the help of the PASIV device. Eduardo’s mind honestly fascinates Mal and Cobb, and strikes Arthur silent with wonder; he’s not even jealous at being supplanted of his place as youngest protégée, it’s kind of nice, having someone lower than him on the totem pole. They never bring Eduardo in on their government contracts, use his mind for pure research: expansive joy, awe-struck glee. There are three summers of this, and interspersed is: Mal and Cobb’s wedding, Mal’s pregnancy and the birth of their first child, Arthur’s goddaughter, golden-haired Philippa, and Arthur’s rapid advancement through the CIA ranks. During their last summer together Eduardo takes to obsessive studying of weather patterns to better model them in dreamscape, and Mal takes him and Arthur two levels deep where they lounge on beaches and teach other French, Portuguese, Spanish.

Eduardo goes to Harvard and meets someone who creates worlds the way the Cobbs do, though in code rather than pure thought; and life happens, and is wonderful and horrible and traumatizing and ends in threats of lawsuits, later grimly carried out. After, raw, bruised, Mal calls Eduardo home. His father can't look at him, but his mentors can. He doesn't have much time before he has to be back in class, but they stretch it the way they've always done and when he returns to finish his degree he has a measure of equilibrium again, hard-won. Going under that first time was a relief for all of them, Mal and Cobb and even Arthur who had taken a day off work to check on Eduardo, because his mind remains the same: his projections slightly more stand-offish, less likely to engage, but nowhere violent - always kind. Some part of all of them feared Eduardo's nature would be fundamentally changed, but it hadn't, and they could still have their shared cooperative creation in his dream.

Eventually, he has his degree, he has half a billion dollars, but he doesn't have a company and he doesn't have a best friend. He does have dreams.

Mal recruits him deeper into dreamshare as he networks his own connections to develop his freelance consulting business, and he keeps busy, and life is all right though lonely, because he still has - well, they're _family_ by this point, and even if he's been effectively disowned by his blood kin, he still has the Cobbs and Arthur - but he doesn't really have a peer group anymore, no one to play video games with (Dom tries, once; it's awkward, almost hilariously bad) or throw his mind against, he'll always be apprentice to Arthur's journeyman, the Cobbs' mastery. But it's enough to be getting on with, and he's travelling the world, he's a success and when Mal gets pregnant again she and Dom ask Eduardo to be godfather and he says yes, of course, because they're family - and James is born, perfect, and everything is the best it's been for maybe ever - and then he's in Singapore - and Dom calls and says, _We need you, please,_ and maybe Eduardo isn't a genius but he learns his lessons; he drops everything. He comes running.

There is something wrong with both of them. Dom moves like his bones tire him. Mal moves like - . It leaves Eduardo uneasy and he phones and emails Arthur, not wanting to be alone with it; but Arthur's on deep-cover and when he finally gets back to Eduardo, it's too late, Mal is dead.

Mal is dead. She's dead.

And the police think Dom killed her. And he looks so _guilty_ all the time. And something of what Mal said, something of how Dom acts, tells Eduardo _why_. And Dom won't stop spinning her totem, and the children are bewildered and aching, and Eduardo is still too young to know what to do.

Dom runs first. Before Arthur follows after, he gives Eduardo instructions to keep away from the entire mess. "Not even your lawyers, nothing, no money, no contact," Arthur insists. Eduardo frowns, and Arthur hisses. He wouldn't give an explanation to anyone else, wouldn't spare the time. "Cobb doesn't have any family besides us. Miles is terminal, diagnosed a month ago. Mada is unfit as a longterm caregiver. Philippa and James - you're, you have to be beyond question in this if we can't get Cobb clear. If we can't get Cobb clear, you're going to have to step up."

It's huge. The weight of this responsibility. But Eduardo nods, because what else can he do? All he knows is how to give all he has, everything he is.

He effectively moves to California that year. Not quite into the Cobbs' house; Mal's mother has taken up residence, with frequent visits from her father from overseas. Mal's children are withdrawn, and it makes Eduardo's chest ache to see them so still when they should be moving. He itches to track Arthur and Dom but he knows he can't; knows he can't do anything, anything at all, because he has to be above reproach if worse comes to worst. He has legal custody of the children - it was discussed when James was born - but even so, with the scandals surrounding Mal and Dom, and Eduardo's own lack of a blood connection, if Mada fights him for them she may well win.

Living in California means attending the events he's always before begged off of, socializing with those from whom he's maintained careful distance. There's mystification and gossip and awkward attempts at reconciliation that he ignores, has to ignore, all his focus is on the children and trying to find ways of - of, of getting Dom and Arthur _out_ of the mess they're in. He doesn't even know what direction to look in to find the solution to this problem. Someone with power and influence could fix it so Dom could come home. (Not - not his old - not them, they have money but that doesn't always mean freedom, and it probably won't mean freedom for Dom.)

It's at a benefit for some sort of charity that Eduardo meets Saito. No first name. The face of Proclus Global. In a room full of billionaires (Eduardo one of them), Saito still stands out.

Eduardo gathers information. He sets events in motion.

Three months later, Dom comes home.


	2. Sao Paulo

These were the early days yet of dreamshare technology. Ricardo Saverin has a government contract that requires the security of his mind be guaranteed. He has wealth and influence enough that he can demand the same for his son, who meets no one's eyes. Dom and Mal and Arthur, their nascent dreamer, fly out to Brazil because this is the Saverins' summer home - and because the legality of their actions will not be so scrutinized here.

Dom is architect, Mal chemist, and Arthur muscle. They are efficient with Ricardo's militarization. He is savage in turn. His wife is absent from the house. While Dom and Arthur are under with his father, Eduardo Saverin inches forward.

"Are they just sleeping?" he asks, Portuguese accent stronger now after weeks of being in Brazil.

Mal glances at him sidelong, something inviting and sly and wise in her expression. "No," she says. "They are dreaming."

While they dream, Eduardo sits with Mal. Neither Dom nor Arthur realizes _this_ is where the bond is born. Afternoons and evenings spent together keeping vigil.

Drowsy light keeps them company. Eduardo is half-asleep, constantly, from the heat.

He is young, still a child; and when it's his turn to go under, his father has no kindness, but a business trip. He doesn't demand to supervise Eduardo's militarization personally. He stiffly informs Dom that they are welcome to stay for however long it takes to instill discipline in his son's disorganized mind, and leaves.

"He's busy," Eduardo shrugs his thin, browning shoulders. Wholly unsurprised. His expression is calm, but just yesterday he asked Mal, hushed and ashamed of his own fear, _Will it hurt?_ , and she doesn't even try to resist her instinctive urge to protect.

"I'll take him under," she announces, brisk. "The two of us. Just us." She calculates his Somnacin dosage - tuts over his thin weight - preps his arm for injection, and settles in the lounge next to his. She slides a needle into his arm and then one into hers.

He watches her as he goes under. She winks.

What she'll show him will be better than the world.


	3. Facebook stalking

The site has been loudly and repeatedly derided as a stalking tool, so user beware, right? Especially if the user in question is a _co-founder_. Mark doesn't know what to make of it, when Wardo's IP starts showing a California location for longer than a week. Longer than a month. Two months. Four.

It can't be that Wardo's _moved_ to the West Coast - right? He visits California but he never stays. Almost always business trips. Maybe exclusively business trips, Mark doesn't really know, their circles don't intersect that often anymore. They have no friends in common. Maybe Chris. Mark thinks Chris and Wardo probably hung out when they were finishing their degrees, when Mark and Dustin were out in Palo Alto.

Wardo's in California, and he's been in California for - months. Mark doesn't know what to do with this. Why did he even have to notice? It started as some sort of absurd game. Where's Wardo. It wasn't like Wardo even logged into his facebook account all that often, but whenever he did it tended to be from a different city, if not a different country altogether. Mark has a digitized world map. He tags the cities with the date of when Wardo is in them. It's not really a thing, it's just something he does, when he's taking a micro-break from coding. Wardo logs a lot of airtime, is only nominally based in Singapore, for how often he travels outside of it - or at least he _did_.

According to his IP, Wardo is only a few hours' drive from Mark. Not even a flight, but a road trip. He could easily come in to Silicon Valley, attend a shareholder's meeting. He could easily come by the offices and see how things have changed. Mark doesn't think he will, but he _could_. It's more real when they're in the same country, the same state. Mark can't keep tricking himself into thinking the distance between them is physical.

There are invitations Mark gets to events he usually doesn't bother to attend. Wardo probably gets them too.

Mark starts to accept.

He doesn't have anything so official as an algorithm to determine which events he'll go to - but if the cause listed is one he thinks Wardo is sympathetic to, he's more likely to go; if the location is close to where Wardo is now, if the businessmen Wardo deals with have RSVP'd and it's likely Wardo will show up to network if nothing else, if -. There's no real reason to it. Mark is under no delusions, if they both go, if they see each other from across the crowded room, a reunion is likely not in the offing. But, it would be good to - to be in the same room. It would be good to share the same space.

It happens half a dozen times. Mark never gets very close to Wardo. Sometimes this is his doing, and sometimes it's Wardo's. Wardo looks good - grown more into his limbs, his tan healthy and glowing - but also, tired. As if there's something heavy weighing on his mind, like how he would get around exams only worse. Mark has seen photographs; never very good resolution, but enough to have had an idea of how Wardo has changed. The reality still knocks him a little unsteady.

Mark is only close enough once to hear Wardo speak, and that's an accident. Wardo doesn't even know he's there - the acoustics of the room are strange, and Wardo probably thinks he is being discreet when he starts speaking quietly, insistently to his companion, an elderly man with lined features and an English accent. Mark, standing a few feet off and next to a curve in the wall, is semi-hidden, though not intentionally.

"You've seen them?" Wardo asks.

The man sighs. "Arthur. He dropped off the presents."

"How did he look? Did he say anything about Dom?" Wardo's voice drops.

"He looked fine," the man says. "A little stressed, but when is he not? He didn't say anything about Dom."

"You didn't ask," Wardo says.

The man shakes his head, but his face is turned and Mark can't make out his expression. "It's better we don't know too much," he says, and it sounds like something he's repeated often.

"We know _nothing_."

"That's how it should be." The man puts his hand on Wardo's shoulder. "Don't forget your role in this, Eduardo." Wardo doesn't reply. His posture slumps. It's distressing, how his body folds inward, just slightly, but loud as a shout if you know Wardo's body language. The man apparently does, because he sighs again and says, "It's my understanding that they have been taking extraction jobs. But that's all I know."

"A two-man team working extraction? That's insane," Wardo says.

The man winces. "They're working with chemists. Different ones for each job."

Wardo shudders. Nothing about this conversation makes sense to Mark, but he stays still to listen anyway. "I should have gone with them. That sounds too -"

"You are where you need to be," the man says again.

Wardo covers his eyes with one hand, shockingly vulnerable for a public event. "I can't do this alone, Miles."

"You can," Miles, he has a name now, says. "And if you have to, you will."

After that exchange they move on to discussing the structure of building they're in; appropriate enough, Mark later thinks, back in his office, discovering Miles is a professor of architecture at the Sorbonne. Dr. Stephen Miles has a Facebook page - actually, two. One a private account for friends and family (including Wardo, which was how Mark found him), and one a public account for students and faculty to access. Both are bare bones, but Mark scans them anyway. Miles has his privacy settings locked down fairly securely and some vestige of ethics keeps Mark from stripping away those layers of security. He finds what he's looking for, buried months deep in the public account's wall, a small detail that stands out. _Condolences_ , from a Classics professor lecturing at Oxford. _Mallorie was a delight and will be missed by us all._ It's not a huge leap to assume either wife or daughter.

Mallorie Miles is not on Facebook.

A cursory internet search finds two articles of consequence: one an online obituary, the other a news report. The former tells Mark that Dr. Mallorie Cobb, nee Miles, noted psychiatrist and pharmacist, died at roughly the same time Wardo moved to California, and is survived by her husband, Dominic Cobb, architect, and two children, Philippa and James. Funeral services were held midday on a weekend with requests for donations to various charities in lieu of flowers. The news report is more chilling, describing the suspicious circumstances of Mallorie Cobb's death - either a suicide or a homicide - and her husband's subsequent flight from the country.

Mark leans back. _What the hell_ , he wonders, _have you gotten into, Wardo?_


	4. A dream

Eduardo is _so sixteen.  
_  
It's not anything obvious except to him, how his skin doesn't fit.  

Mal puts her hand in his and music comes from the stars, which whirl above them. They are waltzing on top of the ocean, which is solid though wet, while Dom and Arthur dive.  Mal and Eduardo are both barefoot. Mal is wearing a deep red ballgown. Matching gloves encase her arms to the elbows and rings stud her fingers, garnet and ruby and fire opal. Her hair is upswept and her makeup is immaculate. Eduardo already knows how to dance, the mechanics of it, but Mal teaches him to listen to another body and respond. 

"Did you know," she says, "This is one way to make muscle memory? In one of our earliest studies, we found physical skill retention when gained in a dream to correlate closely with when gained while awake." Her white teeth gleam. 

"What about intellectual things?" Eduardo asks. "Do you remember if you learn something in a dream?" 

"That took a while to discover," Mal says. "We gain knowledge through external factors." She tilts her head, lilts her accent. "Experiences, textbooks, articles. You can reinforce that knowledge through obsessive repetition while in a dream, but you can't _gain_  knowledge from yourself. You can _think_  about what you know, but you can't _know_  more than you know." She pauses, and doesn't continue until Eduardo nods, signaling his understanding. "However, when two or more dreamers share a dream, they become external factors to one another. What one knows can be taught to the other." She smiles then, sly, like a villainness. "Or stolen." 

This, Eduardo understands, is what is meant by _extraction_. 

Dom and Arthur surface then, breaking through the waves and slicking back their wet hair. "I think we found Atlantis," Dom says, grinning, and Arthur says, "Anyone want to play battleship? I've always wanted to try it large-scale with actual submarines."

Later Arthur makes Coney Island and they eat hot dogs and walk down an endless deck stretching into the ocean. Mal's hair is in loose curls blown by the wind, and she is dressed in a white and blue boat neck sweater and white jeans. Her feet are still bare. Dom is in a rumpled suit, off-the-rack, ill-fit; Arthur is in Zegna, sharp enough to cut. Eduardo wears linen, sleeves pulled up to his elbows; his feet are bare too. Sometimes they meet Eduardo's projections coming toward them and passing placidly by - Mal blatantly flirts, and it makes Eduardo blush. At some point one of them inverts gravity and the deck becomes a mobius strip, and they've turned into an Escher print, doubling behind themselves. 

The beach they end up at is Eduardo's, probably, Miami-style sand and heat and wind. Mal and Dom loll together in a silk sided pavilion; Arthur and Eduardo play chess. Eduardo wins. They play again, and Eduardo still wins. Arthur's brow furrows. "What am I doing wrong?"

Eduardo smiles, and shows him. 

Later, Mal and Dom _still_  haven't resurfaced (Eduardo very firmly does not consider what they could be doing _in his mind_ , right this instant), so Arthur conjures a dojo and begins to teach Eduardo both how to throw and how to dodge a punch. He also shows Eduardo how to fall so that he does the least possible damage to his body. 

The sun begins to set. It doesn't have to. Someone has decided it should. Mal and Dom come out and settle in the sand, and Arthur folds his dojo under a dune, and they sit together and watch the sky turn into orange and red and gold and dark, dark blue. 

Eduardo knows there is an ulterior motive for his presence. Mal and Dom and Arthur have something to gain from him, and from this. He's young but he's not _stupid_. He's sixteen but he's far from naive.

It's all right, though. He doesn't mind. He just hopes he stays useful, so he can come back again next year; so they'll let him stay. 


	5. l'histoire du mal pt.1

Later when they spoke of her they would say things like, _post-partum_. 

Mal's mother and father never separated. As a child she lived the majority of the year in France, with her mother; every other holiday, in England with her father. It was very amicable. She boarded in Switzerland. She attended Oxford for one degree and Cambridge for another, and the Sorbonne for pleasure, where she met her father's TA, whose French was _atrocious_. She collapsed in laughter over it. He kept her curls from falling into her gasping mouth. He had tender hands, and no anger over being the subject of her mockery. 

They were recruited into the same interdisciplinary program back in England, in great part due to Mal's father's influence as a first-gen researcher. This made what could have been simply a passing acquaintance into friendship. They learned to dream together. 

It was a violent process. 

Mal's psychiatrist-pharmacist background made it easy for her to acquaint herself with the neurophysiology and neurophysics involved in the construction of the PASIV device. Once dreaming, Dom's structured, architectural view of the world imposed order of the bewildering dream logic. There were others in the program. More chemists, more psychiatrists, more architects: heady with the feel of being pioneers. Until the first didn't wake. And the second. And the third, who did, finally, but woke insane. 

This was before they even learned what projections could, and would, do. 

The sedative was at first too strong, and then too weak. Early iterations of the PASIV device required not just intravenous connection but also electrodes attached to the temples and spine. They winnowed weaknesses away until what remained was streamlined. 

It was beyond the cutting edge. 

Then it ended. The civilian aspect, anyway. If they wanted to remain, they would need to sign on to the military; so they did, but not the English one. 

Dom's advocacy brought Mal into the American organization for lucid dreamers. They were granted leeway in their research goals, because they worked exceptionally well together and produced incredible results when left on their own. The more structure Dom learned to impose, however, the more stability he created in the dreamscape, the more agitated its inhabitants became. This was being discovered across the board. The animated subconscious became _violent._ It would tear its invaders to shreds. Literally. 

Mal experimented with sedatives, trying to discover a combination that would render the dreaming mind peaceful. There were too many drawbacks, however: a heavily tranquilized mind collapsed dreams, for all that its violence was capped. It turned the atmosphere slow-moving and heavy, and it incapacitated the facility to _learn_. At that point, that was still the stated goal of the lucid dreaming project; accelerated learning within a relatively risk-free environment. Extraction would come later. Inception would be theorized later still. 

There were whispers of minds that were not subconsciously violent; Mal had no experience of them. She believed they must exist, and wondered at the type of personality shaped by that mind, but had never encountered one. The whispers that spoke of them also relayed their disappearance: how they were swiftly taken into government custody for further research and examination, to see _how_  and _why._ Minds that tore each other apart made it difficult to take a group of soldiers into dream-time and cooperatively teach them in five hours what would take five weeks awake, after all, and so it would be beyond profitable to discover what made a mind's projections placid, calm.

Mal and Dom at this point had become disillusioned with the military application. They pointed out that they could break into someone's mind and discover its secrets; they were shifted to the CIA branch. Both to train against (militarize; distasteful yet accurate wording) and to perform extraction (a bloodless term that sidestepped the violation). Mal functioned as Extractor at first, given her psychiatrist background; but Dom quickly outstripped her, having swift and savage intuition as to a secret's hiding place. He _knew_  where a thing would be, how a dream would build around what it wanted to protect, and he was ruthless in his discovery. 

Together they made the government very nervous. But they were useful, they were assets. So they were given a spy in the form of a student, who they, in their own way, subverted: because who couldn't help but be charmed by sly, graceful Mal and charismatic, brilliant Dom? Arthur became their satellite, kept always close by the pull of their gravity. 

Mal _liked_  Arthur. He amused her. His suits. His cat's grace and exactness. He turned to Dom to be mentored, but to Mal for insight. They cooked together, and set the table together, and when Dom came home they turned together to smile at him in welcome. 

And then they were told to fly to Brazil and militarize Saverin Sr., then further ordered to militarize Saverin Jr., who was Eduardo, who Mal loved. 

She went into his mind and saw its edgelessness. The malleability. It could have been his youth; he was among the youngest she had ever militarized, no decent parents would allow it in their child; but Mal doubted that. It was just _him_. The lack of malice, the lack of intent to harm. The eagerness for joy and wonder. It was easy to love such a mind, such a boy.  

While they set Arthur the task of discovering a way to militarize the boy's mind (he eventually hit on paradoxical shapes to confound intruding consciousnesses, the clever man), Mal and Dom discussed how best to keep Eduardo safe. Because it was very obvious that if the knowledge of the nature of Eduardo's mind spread beyond them, he would be disappeared as those others with minds like him had, likely kept in a dreaming state non-stop to discover how he differed from the violent norm. It was no fate for a child. No fate for a mind like that. So he must be obscured. Somehow. 

Mal and Dom had done many things they were not proud of, but this wouldn't be added to that list. 

At first it surprised Mal how easily Arthur agreed with them, when they explained to him the risks, given he was sworn to duty as a CIA operative: but he had been inside Eduardo's mind, too. It wasn't so strange to want to protect that. To want to preserve it. Not having felt hostile projections stab you to death; or garotte you; or shoot you in each limb, slowly traveling upward; or rip you to pieces, to literal pieces. A mind whose projections were peaceful, benign, whose projections laughed with you, touched you gently - that kind of mind, you had to safeguard. 

Their secrecy bound them together. To share a good deed, to feel virtuous together, it cohered them. They weren't just a team after that. They were _family._


	6. Arthur's hotel room, post-inception

Probably Arthur should never have taught Eduardo his spy tricks, because the kid is sitting on his bed when he opens the door to the hotel room he _just_  checked into. "You're lucky I wasn't leading with my gun," Arthur says. 

Eduardo says, "I'm in your direct line of sight, and you couldn't exactly bring out a gun when you were in the hall. Lawyered." 

"What does that even _mean_?" Arthur closes the door behind him, makes sure it's secured. 

"It means I've had too much free time the last year and a half and have succumbed to sit-com watching, Arthur," Eduardo says. "This is what you have reduced me to, I am quoting pop culture of the masses at you." His words are easy, but the set of his shoulders is not. He gets up as Arthur pulls off his tie, shrugs off his suit jacket. "Put me out of my misery, here."

Arthur sighs, feeling old. "It worked," he says. "Don't even try to use your martyr look on me, I know Miles phoned you as soon as Dom got past customs without any problems." 

"That's not the only thing I was concerned about," Eduardo says. His eyes are large and concerned. His hands twitch, like he wants to grasp Arthur, and physically check that Arthur is all right. Arthur smiles at him, tiredly, but sincere. 

"It all worked out just fine," he assures. "Just like you planned."

Easy as that, Eduardo looks incredibly guilty. Arthur stifles a laugh. 

"It was a good concept," he goes on. "I mean, once I figured out how Saito knew about us, and how he knew about _inception_ , of all things, it was pretty easy to connect it back to you. How did you convince him, anyway?"

Eduardo shifts. "He knew about the PASIV device already," Eduardo admits. "Don't worry, I didn't take him under or anything. I just pointed out how inception could be advantageous with the impending death of Fischer Sr." He shrugs. "I know how businessmen think, it wasn't difficult to steer Saito where I wanted him." 

Arthur huffs a half-hearted laugh. _Steering Saito._ He toes off his shoes, and flops onto the bed on his back, wrung out. Eduardo sits next to him; Arthur pulls him backward so that he's lying down too. "You have no idea how long it's been since I could get drunk," he says, plaintive. Being on point, relentlessly, is exhausting. 

"Hotel bar," Eduardo offers. "Tab's on me." 

"I can't even believe you're legal drinking age," Arthur groans. "You make me old." He doesn't move to get up. "One thing I couldn't factor in," he says. "Why Saito would use _us_. If you gave him the idea. There are other teams. More - stable ones." 

Eduardo says, "I pointed out your track record. All the government jobs, they add up, they look impressive. And - I knew. I guessed. That Dom had done inception." He's silent a beat, then goes on: "I was in that house with them, I saw how Mal was. Different. There was a thought in her she couldn't get out. It changed everything about her." Neither of them thinks for an instant that Dom incepted Mal without her permission; the two were always pushing boundaries, forcing the edge ever further in search of new ground.

Arthur shudders. "Philippa and James are _never_  going under," he swears, vehement. 

"Never," Eduardo solemnly agrees. 

Another pause. Arthur nudges Eduardo's side. "You haven't told me everything," he says.

"Um," Eduardo says. "I may also have offered to insure the operation. If the inception didn't take, I said I would cover all costs." 

Arthur blinks at the ceiling. Then he bursts out laughing. It's part exhaustion, the sudden relief of tension; part genuine hilarity. 

"What?" Eduardo sits up. He glares down at Arthur. "What?"

" _Airline_ ," Arthur gets out. 

...

It hurts Eduardo in his Brazilian-born soul to drink the swill that constitutes hotel room complimentary coffee, but it's there and it's convenient and it's what Arthur wants, so he brews it and pours two cups while Arthur showers. While Arthur showers, there's a knock at the door, and a British-accented man's voice saying, "Open up, Arthur, I know you're in there."

Eduardo panics a little. Arthur hasn't locked the bathroom door, so Eduardo throws it open, then throws a towel at Arthur, then shoves him out of the bathroom with a harried, whispered, "You have a _visitor_." 

It wouldn't be the end of the world if someone saw Eduardo with Arthur, but it's also been pounded into his head for literal _years_  that he can't associate with Dreamers other than Arthur or the Cobbs - the risk is too great; Arthur has already yelled at him for contacting Saito in person - and the man at the door can only have been someone from the last job. Eduardo closes the bathroom door and locks it. Through the thin wood he can hear Arthur let someone in, greeting him with a terse, "Eames."

"Arthur," Eames says.  "So sorry to interrupt your shower. Or -" he's sighted one of the numerous signs that there were two people in the room, not just Arthur - "is it an assignation I've disrupted?" Something gleeful and sly in his voice, but also dark. 

"I assume you have a point in tracking me down," Arthur says. "Hurry up and make it." 

"Hm," Eames hums. "Impatient. All right then, I decided it would be courteous of me to inform you that I have decided to apprentice the young Ariadne. She has the makings of a good Extractor, not just an Architect, and neither you nor Cobb is recovered enough to take her on." 

Eduardo can almost _see_  Arthur bristle, he pictures it so clearly. "I don't see that you're her best option," he says. 

"Please," Eames says, condescendingly. "I have just as widespread a network of contacts as you, and I haven't burned _nearly_  as many bridges the last year or so. You know she's just going to get deeper into this world now that she's been introduced to it. I'm offering to take the responsibility off of your hands." A pause. "It seems you're feeling a bit chilly."

"My eyes are up here," Arthur says, arctic. Then he sighs. "I concede your point," he says. "I'm going inactive for the next six months, and I don't even know if Cobb is staying in the game. Ariadne would never stay off the grid that long." He pauses before adding, grudging, "I appreciate your involvement, and I -" Eduardo can _hear_  the gritted teeth - "trust in your ability to keep her safe." Another pause. "Was that all?"

"Eager to get back to your shower, are you," Eames says leeringly. 

"Yes, that is exactly it," Arthur dead-pans. 

"You work fast," Eames admires. "Not even off the plane two hours and already with intimate company. Unless she's the hired sort -"

Arthur snorts. "Hardly. I've known him for years. Seriously, Eames, is there anything else?"

Eames sounds subdued when he says, "No. Nothing else. Except, when you _do_  get back in, look us up, yeah? You make a good Point."

"Wilco," Arthur says. "I'll - see you around." The door opens; closes. 

Arthur raps on the bathroom. Eduardo opens up. Arthur looks just about falling-down exhausted. "Go drink the coffee," Eduardo orders. "You'll fall asleep in the shower unless you do." 

"You'll make such a good mother," Arthur snarks, but he diverts from going back into the bathroom for the coffee on the dresser instead. 

"I've had enough practice lately," Eduardo mutters. Wrangling two toddlers on a daily basis: not the most fun ever. He doesn't know how nannies do it. He sits back down on the bed, feeling a little damp from shower-spray. "So, that was Eames." 

Arthur is bare except for the towel wrapped around his hips, but he makes Eduardo feel like the naked one with his glare. "No," he says. He gulps his coffee, then takes Eduardo's. 

"What?" Eduardo says, all wounded innocence. 

"Not a topic for discussion," Arthur says. "No." He finishes Eduardo's coffee, and stalks into the bathroom.

Eduardo sighs, happy; curls onto his side. 

...

"You'll fall asleep anywhere," Arthur says fondly, remembering Eduardo as a long-limbed lanky teen asleep in the Cobbs' backyard; at their kitchen table; on their living room floor. He tucks the kid in. He's nowhere near his apartment, but he still feels like he's come home. 


	7. Berlin

"Not all the jobs are mind-heist," Eames explained patiently. 

Ariadne made a rapt pupil. 

"Early applications were for learning and therapy," Arthur added. 

That was at the beginning of the job, when they first accepted the task of breaking a traumatized child out of his catatonic state, and before they knew that his projections were of the violently reactive sort. "Naturally offensive," Eames noted, bleak, "We'll need more mazes out of you, young Architect," and Ariadne went back to the draft board. 

What was worse was when someone else was made the subject of the dream and the boy brought in, just to _show_  him what it could be like, he provoked _their_ unconsciousness into rabid violence, too. Faster and faster, growing in efficiency. 

They were getting exhausted. Worn thin. Tired of dying. Even Ariadne, so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and still capable of naturally dreaming (though Eames gave her two more months before that began to taper off). More than that, the _boy_  was showing signs of damage, receding ever further, his projections losing visibility though not violence. 

Back in their base of operations, this time a suite of opulent rooms at a hotel, bill footed by a desperate mother, Eames sighed. "I don't know," he said, "the only way I can think of this working is with an interface. We've tried everything else." 

Arthur's jaw worked. He didn't like failure. Ethically speaking, none of them liked leaving the boy as he was, either. "I might be able to make that happen," he said, carefully. 

Eames stared at him. "You," he said, incredulous, "have access to an interface?"

"I _am_  a point man," Arthur said. "I have access to most things." 

"Excuse me," Ariadne said, wry, playing the schoolgirl as she put her hand in the air. "What's an interface?"

Eames didn't look away from Arthur. "They're rare, and protected. What's the black market value on a good interface these days?" that addressed to Arthur. 

Arthur frowned severely. "Five million for a raw one. Twenty for trained. The one I know is trained." He explained the discrepancy to Ariadne with, "Sometimes training erodes an interface's effectiveness. It's slightly counterintuitive. If an interface can be trained and _stay_  an interface, it's valuable. A raw one is good for a few violent dreams before burning out, but a trained one can calm a dream from the outset." 

"You guys think you are being clear, but you are really not," Ariadne said. 

Eames was still staring at Arthur, still incredulous. "I can't believe," he said, "I can't _believe_  you had an _interface_  and you didn't bring it in on the Fischer job. The job with Cobb's malevolent dead wife of a projection. The job with Fischer's surprise militarization." 

"It had something more important to do," Arthur said. Then he turned his head and resolutely ignored Eames to give Ariadne a quick rundown on interfaces, namely that they were benign unconsciousnesses whose presence fostered peaceful cooperation with other dreaming minds.

"Wait," Ariadne said, "These interfaces are _people_?"

"Of course," Arthur said blankly, as if it were obvious, and went on. "The effect is strongest when an interface is the subject of the dream, but is still present when the interface is the dreamer or a participant in the dream. They make it possible for other dreamers to interact with each other and their environment without projections killing everything in sight. It's a completely natural ability; being an interface isn't something you can train for or anticipate." 

"So," Ariadne said slowly, "If we have an interface, then Jonathan's mind will stop ripping us apart?"

"Essentially," Arthur nodded. "And ours won't rip _him_  apart, either." 

"Wow," Ariadne said. "Why don't we always have an interface? It would make all of our jobs so much easier if we didn't have to worry about projections." 

"Interfaces need protecting," Eames said, slowly. "Not in dreams. In the real world. They - have a bad habit of being disappeared." 

Ariadne abruptly remembered all the black market mentions. She paled. 

Arthur nodded. "Whatever you're thinking, the reality is probably worse. Interfaces are - they're rare. And they're very bad at self defense." He sighed. "I can get the interface here over night, but I'm going to need to make arrangements." 

He was being cryptic again, Ariadne noted, and Eames was just nodding along. "Separate security measures," Eames said for her benefit. Then to Arthur, with a bit of a leer, "Playing bodyguard?"

"Yes," Arthur said, terse, and turned away to make a series of calls from another room. 

"What," Ariadne said, "Separate security measures _from us_?" She and Eames were still angled to look in the direction Arthur had gone, though a closed door obscured their vision of him. 

"You can't take risks with an interface's safety," Eames said bleakly. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "Early days," he said, explaining, "No one knew the limits or the norms of what we do. At first, interfaces were thought to be uncommon. Now they're recognized as rare. If you enter a government dreaming program - yes, they exist - and they discover you're an interface, you have two options: take the deal, and the protection, they offer you, or get out of the country and go underground. Underground interfaces typically find recreational work, sometimes extraction. Most government interfaces have their minds turned into torture chambers, because whoever is being interrogated can't fight back with projections, and no physical damage is done so interrogators can go as far as they want. Those interfaces end up going rogue sooner or later anyway. Or mad. The work can break their minds." 

"That's horrible," Ariadne said, looking sick. 

Eames slung a companionable arm over her shoulder. "Now aren't you glad you're already on the wrong side of the law?"

...

"Philippa, _no_ ," Eduardo said when he picked up the phone. 

"This is Arthur," Arthur said, dryly.

"Oh, hi, sorry, one second," and there was a clinking sound as the phone was set down, and then a laughing squeal as Philippa was picked up. Eduardo's voice echoed oddly as he moved further away, saying, "Little girls get piggyback rides, little monsters get carried upside down by their feet." 

Arthur grinned despite himself. He waited patiently for a ten count, and by eleven, Eduardo was back and breathless. 

"Sorry about that," Eduardo said, "She's in a nudist phase or something, every time she gets out of the bathtub she's running around naked in the backyard. Apparently it's the best fun ever. Dom is going crazy trying to keep her in clothes." 

"Take her boutique shopping in New York," Arthur suggested. "If the clothes look like they belong to fairy tales, she'll probably keep them on." 

Eduardo made a thoughtful noise. "That might work," he conceded. 

"Of course it will," Arthur said. He knew his goddaughter. "Anyway, I need you on this job. Can you make it?"

Eduardo flipped into business mode. "Germany, right? I can fly out of LAX to Dublin with my own passport and then use one of the dummies with a European nationality to get to Berlin." 

"I don't like you using your real one at all," Arthur scowled. 

"I fly in and out of that airport too often to risk it," Eduardo pointed out. "If you want a more obscured trail, I guess I could fly from Dublin to Paris under a fake and then take the rail to Germany under _another_  fake, but that'll take longer and you'll owe me so much coffee by the time I get there." 

"Do it," Arthur said. 

Eduardo was slightly infamous in certain circles, but, thankfully, his face was not. His name was the thing that garnered attention. He'd always been careful about being photographed, so visible recognition wasn't too high a worry. 

Eduardo heaved a sigh. "Are you going to give me any details, or am I flying blind until I land?"

"It's a therapeutic one," Arthur said. "Around your age when you started." 

" _Oh,"_ Eduardo said. "Right, okay."

"You remember the place from that time we went under, with the pearls?" An oblique reference, but Eduardo was making noises of agreement. 

"And the red bathroom door, yeah," he said. It had been a dream, one of Mal's, a small local hotel she'd stayed in once and thought charming. She'd worn a dramatic cascade of pearls, in her hair, around her neck, for most of that dream. 

"You know how to get to it?" Arthur said. 

"Yes," Eduardo said. 

"Go there, then," Arthur said. "I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Tchau," Eduardo said, and hung up. 

...

"The interface will be here tomorrow," Arthur reported. 

"How much of the take does it want?" Eames asked. This was a delicate question, because technically the team had done the work and the interface wouldn't contribute anything other than presence; but that presence was also vital to the success of the job. 

"Oh," Arthur blinked, looking - rare, for him - blindsided. "No, that won't be a problem. It's a favour for me, we can keep the same split." 

"That doesn't sound right," Eames said slowly. 

Ariadne was looking between them like she was watching a tennis match. 

Arthur said, "Trust me. The last thing this interface needs is money." 

Then it was down to brisk business. 

...

Three days later (there was a brief delay due to a Somnacin shortage; they'd burned through much of their supply in early unsuccessful runs, and needed even more for the interface), Eames drove his rental to a remote farmhouse with Ariadne in the passenger seat. "This feels creepy," Ariadne said. "Why couldn't we just keep going to Jonathan's house?"

"Not secure enough," Eames said, a frown bunching around his eyes. Arthur had been texting directions to him all morning, ones that included circling and doubling back, as well as multiple warnings of watching for a tail. The man was detail-oriented but seldom paranoid, at least not without good reason. An interface was a good reason for worry, but still; this level was unprecedented. It was making Eames feel on edge as well.

Eames parked and got out, Ariadne scrambling after. The front door opened and Arthur leaned out, just his face and torso. "You made reasonably good time," he called. 

The farmhouse was neatly put together on the inside, furniture sparse but sturdy. Jonathan was arranged carefully on one lounger, not yet wired in to the PASIV device, which was on a low, oblong wooden table. One line was wired in to the PASIV, and trailed off, longer than Ariadne had ever seen: into another room, beneath a closed door. 

"The interface is already under," Arthur said, noticing her glance. "You don't get to see it." He grimaced, apologetic. "For both of your safety. You can't know what the interface looks like. It'll be hidden in the dream, and you shouldn't go looking for it either." His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, creased, and he wore no tie. His collar was open. "I'm staying up here to monitor everyone; you don't need artillery now, so you won't need me. We'll start with half an hour real time under." He glanced from Ariadne to Eames. "Works?"

"Sounds good," Eames said, already taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Ariadne followed suit. 

Arthur readied the lines for them, then swabbed their inner arms with iodine. "One more thing," he said, slipping the needle into Ariadne's arm and taping it down. "Some projections may be - familiar. But they're all benign. If you see someone you recognize, don't panic." 

Ariadne frowned, turning her head to question Arthur's odd phrasing, but the Somnacin dosage hit her then; and she went under; she dreamed. 

...

Half an hour later, real time, they woke. 

"Woah," Ariadne said, sitting up. On the next lounger over, Jonathan made a small noise, the strongest indication of his awareness they'd had in weeks. On her other side, Eames also sat up. 

"I forgot how it could be," Eames said, gravelly voiced. 

" _Woah_ ," Ariadne said again. 

Arthur appraised them coolly. "You're all fine?" he questioned. A noise echoed from behind the closed door. Arthur glanced at it. "I need to -"

"Go," Eames waved his hand magnaminously. 

Arthur ducked away. 

Ariadne said, "Is it always like that with an interface?"

"I haven't dreamed with one much before," Eames said. "It's difficult to get one, the ones that freelance have people like Arthur protecting them, and they're usually bloody expensive besides. But yes, from what I remember, it's always like that." 

"This could get addictive," Ariadne said, frankly. She'd never felt welcome in another mind like that. 

Arthur came back out, his face rueful. "How did it go?" he asked. 

"Took a few minutes to orient ourselves," Eames reported. "And then longer to find Jonathan." 

Arthur nodded. "I know," he said, "he's trying to figure out the paradox boxes, apparently."

"Paradox boxes?" Ariadne asked. 

"Something this interface has scattered in its subconscious," Arthur said. Ariadne noted, not for the first time, the careful avoidance of pronouns both Arthur and Eames employed. "Everyone's mind has its quirks." He checked his watch, then said, "Eat something, drink something, and then go back under for two hours real time. You should have an easier time finding Jonathan. If it goes well, the next session will switch to Jonathan being the subject."

Eames nodded, getting up and stretching. Ariadne followed suit. Half an hour above stretched much longer under. 

"There are water bottles and fruit in the fridge," Arthur said. "And canned coffee, but most of that has to go to the interface. One of the working conditions I promised," and he grimaced, muttered, "Damned caffeine addict." 

A few minutes later, they were going back under. Ariadne was eager, and rushed to meet the dream. 

...

The sessions went well, even the one inside of Jonathan's mind, and they began to pack up, exhausted. They'd made more progress in one day than they had in all the ones that had come before, but they still had a lot of work to do. It was early outside, but it felt like days had passed in Ariadne's head. Truthfully, in subjective time, they _had_. 

"We'll pick up again tomorrow," Arthur announced. "I'll text you directions to the new place in the morning."

Eames sighed, exasperated, and Ariadne bit her lip, but neither of them protested the measures. 

"Long day," Eames murmured at Ariadne, and she nodded. 

"I," she decided, "am going to get drunk tonight." 

Eames laughed at her, but didn't offer to come along. 

Ariadne didn't mention how she thought she might have caught a glimpse of the interface in the last session, a face in the crowd conjured by Jonathan's unconscious that seemed too real, somehow, to be a projection. Young, and tall, and dark: large wide eyes, a vulnerable mouth. His presence seemed to calm Jonathan's projections. They weren't forming a lynch mob, anyway. 

He was handsome, Ariadne thought, and somehow gentle, or that was the sensation she got from him. But she wouldn't wreck all of Arthur's work in keeping the man anonymous, so she kept her mouth shut.

A moment later, the fact of him slipped from her mind altogether. 

...

The next morning they drove to another farmhouse, a longer drive this time, with everything set up in a drafty barn. Arthur greeted them as he had done before; the interface was safely squared away and Jonathan was already settled on a lounger. He was under, presumably with the interface, and Ariadne questioned, "Is that safe?" nodding to the line that vanished behind an enclosed stall. 

"What?" Arthur glanced to where Ariadne had indicated. "Oh, yes. Don't worry." He cleared his throat. "They've only been under for fifteen minutes. The interface is the subject, so you two can join in for the next forty-five minutes as a first session." 

"Christ, Arthur," Eames said, glancing around at the mini-fridges and the three visible loungers, "How early did you get here to have everything set up?"

"We did everything last night," Arthur said. 

"That interface of yours helped out?" Eames said. 

"Hardly mine," Arthur said, stiff. He motioned for Eames and Ariadne to settle in the loungers. He put Eames under first. He seemed annoyed with Eames, but his hands as he put the needle in were gentle and steady. Ariadne got settled and took off her cardigan. Her t-shirt had cap sleeves. Arthur glanced over and warned, "You might get cold." 

Ariadne shrugged. "Cover me with a blanket if I start shivering." 

"If you get cold, it can affect the dream," Arthur said. "Dreamers have more influence when an interface is the subject." He quirked his lips, a small smile. "Recreational dreaming is a lot of fun with an interface involved. Less vicious dismemberment, anyway." He got out a horse blanket from somewhere behind Ariadne and settled it across her lap and torso. "This should be good," he assessed, and then prepped her arm and put her under. 

...

Eames was acting as therapist/extractor in the dream. Ariadne was theoretically there to act as backup and, when necessary, to reform the architecture. In reality she was there to learn, more on the job training. 

This dream, created by the interface, was an innocuous cityscape. It looked like a strange mix of London and Tokyo. There were no cars; children were playing in the streets, some lying on their stomachs and drawing on the pavement with chalk. Ariadne noticed a man drawing with them. As if sensing her eyes on him, he glanced up; smiled, and waved. 

She walked over. "Hi," she said. 

"---," he said, smiling. 

"What?" she shook her head. "I can't understand you, what did you just say?" 

He got to his feet and brushed down the front of his trousers, cleaning away street debris. He was tall, almost lanky. He gestured as he spoke, and Ariadne could _hear_  his voice, but not the words. She shook her head again, and he tilted his own, a curious expression on his face. 

"----- --- -----?" he said. 

Ariadne shrugged helplessly. 

The man started to laugh, open and delighted, and shrugged back at her. He offered her the crook of his arm, and she took it, strangely charmed despite the inability to communicate. The children waved at them and Ariadne joined the man in waving back, before they went down the street. 

"I'm supposed to be looking for my co-worker," Ariadne explained. "Sometimes it's tricky finding each other in a dream." 

The man nodded along to her words, but Ariadne couldn't be sure he actually understood her. 

She introduced herself, in case. 

Occasionally as they walked along he would say things to her, affable, but always incomprehensible. He couldn't be much older than her, Ariadne thought. Mid to late twenties. 

When they got to a sidewalk cafe they stopped for coffee, or the dream of coffee. It was unexpectedly hot and flavourful. Ariadne had gotten used to the taste of things being off-kilter in dreams, but this was surprisingly good. She ordered another cup, and the waitress who brought it was Mal Cobb. 

Ariadne startled, and threw the cup of hot coffee in Mal's face - the man beside her put up his hand and halted the momentum before it could burn her. The spill of coffee hung in the air before them like a work of abstract art.

"How rude," Mal said, calmly, her mouth a moue. 

"--- -- ------ ---," the man added, chiding Ariadne. He turned his smile to Mal, and gestured for her to join them. Ariadne tensed, but all Mal did was sit down demurely. 

"By your reaction," the projection of Mal said, "You've encountered me in one form or another before. I hope not the real me? I shudder to think what I may have done to provoke you so strongly."

Numb, Ariadne shook her head. "It was," she said, stuttered, "in your husband's mind. A, a violent. Um, a violent projection of you." 

"Fascinating!" Mal leaned forward. "Tell me more." Her eyes were alight and sparkling. 

Ariadne glanced sidelong at the man, who was beaming at Mal fondly. Ariadne remembered Arthur's warning, now, about familiar projections. About not panicking. 

 _Understatement, Arthur_ , Ariadne thought wryly. 

...

The job wrapped up eleven days later. 

"Are you flying back to the kids?" Arthur asked. They were in Eduardo's hotel room, sharing a drink, unwinding.

Eduardo shook his head. "I have to go to Singapore for some meetings." He grimaced. "And Tokyo, I'm going to have to duck Saito, he always asks after Dom and it is getting a little awkward." 

"Tell me about it," Arthur said. "They have some fascination about being young men together." 

Eduardo and Arthur traded deeply weirded out looks. 

"You should go back, though," Eduardo said. "Spend some time with Philippa. Take her shopping for clothes she'll keep on. James is asking where you are, too." 

"I don't have any jobs set to start soon," Arthur said, contemplative. 

"I think Dom should get back in the field," Eduardo said, suddenly. "He won't admit it, but he's going stir-crazy. And he was at the top, even with the going slightly insane thing." 

"I won't work with him again," Arthur said. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. The threat of limbo still weighed heavy on him. He hadn't forgiven Dom for it yet. 

Eduardo frowned. "I know," he said. 

"You're not working with him either," Arthur added. 

"Well, obviously," Eduardo rolled his eyes. "If for no other reason than that someone needs to stay with the kids." He paused a beat, then questioned, "You're not going to speak for Ariadne or Mr. Eames?"

Arthur shrugged. "If they want to assume the risks of working with him, more power to them." 

"I like how you always treat me like I'm the incompetent toddler," Eduardo said, lips twisting. "Just because you've known me since I was a kid -" 

Arthur made a face at him. "You won't protect yourself, of course I have to do it for you," he said. 

"Ugh," Eduardo made to throw the tumbler at Arthur's head, but then drank from it instead. He looked at Arthur with fond exasperation. "I'm glad you called me in on this one," he said. "It was fun to meet Ariadne and spy on Eames." 

Arthur dimpled back at him. "She was a good candidate to test the obfuscation technique on, a trained but still inexperienced dreamer. And I think Eames picked up that you were watching him in the dreams. He was getting progressively paranoid." Arthur chuckled. 

"You're an evil man," Eduardo declared, and tossed back the rest of his scotch. 

...

Ariadne was going to Moscow to examine the architecture. Eames, taking his mentor role seriously, gave her the number of an emergency contact there in case she ran into trouble. She surprised him with a quick kiss to the cheek and a cheeky wink, signalling goodbye. 

Eames and Arthur lounged in the airport together, awaiting respective flights. Eames pilfered a newspaper and filled in the crossword with obscene phrases. Arthur read an e-book that was possibly actually a coded message. They sat close to one another but didn't communicate in any way. 

Eames left first, for London. 

Arthur second, for LA. 

Scattered, the team left Berlin behind them. 


	8. Vancouver, post-inception

"Huh," Ariadne says when Eames sits down next to her. "I didn't think parks were your thing."

"I am a man of the outdoors," Eames says grandly. The wrought iron bench digs in uncomfortably and is likely leaving rust stains on his trousers as they speak. Still, the view of the duck pond is nice. 

As if she can read his mind (which, maybe she can, Eames would not put it past her), Ariadne says, "I still like ducks even though they're rapists and necrophiliacs." 

Eames blinks for a moment, his brain stuttering. "Pardon?" he asks. 

"An article I read, once," Ariadne says, shrugging. She's wearing a bright neckerscarf today, hues of red and orange and shades of pink. "Apparently ducks are very sexually aggressive." She shifts, subtly, readying her muscles to run. It's well done, and Eames has to admire her for distracting him with talk of the perversions of mallards.

"You can relax," he tells her. "I'm just here to make an offer." 

It's been two days since they got off the plane, pulled off a job with so many fuckups that it should have been _impossible_ , two days since inception. 

Ariadne glances at him sidelong. "I really don't want to know how you found me, do I?" 

"Likely not," Eames agrees, cheerily. "Though it does tie nicely into my point." He's wearing a tie today, so he straightens it for a dramatic touch, to lend gravitas to the moment. "I am here," he says, clearing his throat, "to offer my services unto you, young Ariadne." 

She narrows her eyes at him. It takes Eames a moment to recognize the expression she's attempting to ape: Cobb's infamous squint. It is actually kind of adorable on her. 

"Truly," Eames adds. Then, more serious, "Neither Cobb nor Arthur is going to be active for a good long while. They've been going non-stop for over a year, and that takes a toll. And you - you've a taste for this, now. You're not going to want to stay out. But, darling," and he gives her an intent look, "no matter how sharp you are - and I am sure that you are sharp enough to _cut_  - if you dive into this shark tank, it won't be sink or swim. It'll be _eaten alive_." 

Ariadne has an excellent poker face. Also, a very steady voice. It doesn't shake at all when she says, "You don't think I can take care of myself?"

"I think you went diving into Limbo," Eames says frankly. "That shows you have the survival instincts of a lemming." He slouches slightly, lets his legs spread a little wide, lets his neck fall back. A nonverbal cue to relax, to trust. "Not to mention your luck in having Arthur as a point man your first job out. He is very good about ensuring everyone gets their cut of the take. He makes the travel arrangements, provides necessary documentation to keep each team member under the radar and unarrested.  Not every point man is so conscientious. If you go around trusting blindly, you _will_  get hurt."

"So, what," Ariadne says, unconsciously mirroring Eames' position just slightly. "You're offering to show me the ropes? Just like that?"

Eames flashes her a quick smile. A little con-man charm, but also a little honest, a little admiring. "You are very good," he says. "And I like to nurture talent. It tends to pay off in the future. Think of this as an apprenticeship." 

Ariadne is quiet a beat. Musing, she asks, "What exactly are your terms, here? What do I give and what do I get?"

"I bring you in on jobs," Eames says. He drops the smarm, now: down to business. "For the next two years, you don't take any job without me. For my part, I'll make sure you learn something new with each job, that you make good, reliable contacts with other professionals of our kind, and that each paycheque is at least five figures. In return, I get half of your take for the first year, and a quarter the second. When we're not on a job, I'll show you how to manage your earnings and how to forge various documents to make life as an international criminal easier. And, if you like," he adds generously, "how to gamble." 

Ariadne stares at him steadily. "I want to learn to forge," she says. 

"All right," Eames says. "Not everyone has the talent for it. If you show any, I'll help you train it into a skill." 

Ariadne considers him a moment more before nodding firmly, decisively, and holding out her hand. "You have a deal," she says, and they shake on it. 

Her hand is absurdly small in Eames' hand, and he feels oddly protective for a moment, before he registers the strength in her grip. This one won't need to be coddled, he knows; it's part of why he sought her out. And Eames has always liked the bright ones. She'll make an easy student.

He stands, and tips an imaginary hat to her. "Keep an eye out for me in Paris," he says. "Your first lesson is in spotting when you have a tail. Every time you miss me, I'll lift something off of you," and he waves her neckerscarf at her teasingly, seemingly having conjured it from thin air. Ariadne's hand flies to her throat, which is newly bared. 

"When - how did you -" for the first time, she looks startled. 

Eames winks his rascally wink. He walks backwards a few steps. "The name of this game," he tells her, "is catch me if you can." And with his free hand, he waggles her liberated wallet. 

Her eyes become perfect circles, and she leaps to her feet, readying to reclaim her property. Chuckling, Eames runs off; ready, Ariadne gives chase. 


	9. Miles

Miles flew out to California when the trembling became so violent he could no longer lecture. He wanted to be near his grandchildren for the last few months he had to life. He'd looked into care facilities nearby, high-priced hospices, and arranged a room at one of them. It wouldn't do to become a burden. 

Dom was quite good about bringing the children out to visit, and when Dom couldn't, Eduardo often did. Guiltily, Miles had to admit to a preference for Eduardo's company. He was better able to curb Philippa's exuberance, and more experienced with coaxing James into speech. There was also the fact that he'd never been accused of killing Miles' daughter; that inevitably factored in. 

Occasionally Miles would request Eduardo come alone. He was fond of the young man. He knew Mal had been fond of Eduardo, too; more than fond. She had willed him most of her private research documents. He was the student she'd constantly mentioned but never named. After her death, when Eduardo had become the children's caregiver (Miles' estranged wife came to assuage her own guilt and ego, but was hardly a nurturing presence in the household), Miles had come to know him - to like, and respect, what he knew.  

Eventually, Miles had to resort to a wheelchair to get around. It was vaguely humiliating to no longer be able to walk. Miles did his best to get over his able-ism. It was disquieting to have so many people around to _help_  him. He didn't like being helped. His arms were too weak to reliably propel him where he wanted to go, and this was frustrating. Eduardo noticed this one day and the next, a new, motorized wheelchair was delivered for Miles' use, discreetly done. 

When it was just Eduardo and Miles, they spent the time discussing Mal, the past, her work, the children, their dreams. Sometimes they sat in silence. 

At a certain point, Miles had trouble breathing. His immune system was shot. One bad fever would finish him. 

He made a request, that he be able to dream one last time - that he be strong and young, that Dom should dream with him so that they might manage to say all the things that needed to be said without Miles' many health problems intruding, and that Eduardo interface them to give the dream extra stability. Yes - Miles knew what Eduardo was. He was proud of his daughter for having protected the young man. 

Somnacin, even in a small dose, would ravage Miles' already ravaged body. But they managed. 

Objectively, it was a short dream: twenty minutes real time. Subjectively, they went down three levels: and dreamed much longer. 

When they woke, they felt it, what bonded them; that each, in his way, had been beloved of Mal. "Ah," Miles said, reedy, thin voiced. "I think I am ready to sleep, now."

His eyes closed and didn't open again. 


	10. Philippa

James was too young to remember what it had been like, but Philippa was solemn eyed when she asked Eduardo, "Does this mean Daddy is going to leave again?"

"No, sweetheart," Dom said. He sat next to her on the couch. Philippa crawled into his lap and clung to his neck.

Eduardo held James in the armchair, but was looking at Philippa. "Why do you think that, querida?"

"When Maman died, Daddy left," Philippa said. Her voice was matter-of-fact. Her tiny fingers clenched in the collar of Dom's shirt. 

"This isn't the same," Dom said. _His_  voice was rough, at the edges. "Philippa, I'm never leaving you or your brother again, okay? No matter what. I promise."

"Or Padrinho," Philippa added. "You can't leave him either." 

"No," Dom said, softly. "I won't leave your padrinho either." 

Eduardo felt young, absurdly young, made a child again at those words. James nuzzled against his chest. He was still a baby, really; but he understood, when he was told, that they weren't going to see Granddad again. It made him sad, but more because Dom and Eduardo were sad than personal grief. Now, he was tired. It was past the time he went down for a nap. 

Eduardo stood, still carrying James, and said as much. "Philippa too," he added. "You both need to sleep a little." 

"I don't want to," Philippa said, even as she clutched monkey-like to Dom as he got to his feet still holding her. 

The master bedroom had been converted into a nursery for the children in the year after Mal's death. It made more sense, functionally, and made it a little easier to deal with - everything. Making changes, however small, was a coping mechanism that kept Eduardo sane. Mada hadn't protested, anyway, and she was the only one present who could have interfered. 

Anyway, Dom hadn't seemed to mind when he came home. He was actually grateful to have a different bedroom, one not so mired in regret and grief. 

They put the children down to nap there, James already asleep and Philippa following quickly after despite her earlier protest. The curtains were drawn and the lights were dimmed. In the hall, Dom put his hand on Eduardo's elbow - an unconscious, guiding gesture. Dom was the kind of man who communicated through touch. He was very outward directed, contrasting with Arthur's indrawn demeanor. They went to the kitchen to start dinner, which took longer for them than probably any other household nearby given how terribly awful they each were at cooking. They had to go slow and certain to make sure anything was edible.

As Eduardo chopped and Dom stirred, they discussed death arrangements. Miles had left a detailed will so they weren't exactly flying blind. They'd lucked out that he'd had a dual citizenship between Britain and America, which cleared up a lot of the legalities about having him interred with Mal's ashes in the family plot once he'd been cremated. The problem was the funeral. Most of Miles' colleagues, family and friends were in the United Kingdom. Not to mention his (estranged) wife. They wanted to have a funeral or a wake for him there. 

"I don't even know if I could fly there with his ashes for the wake and then bring him back again," Dom said, frustrated. "That's what Mada wants, but -" 

"You could always call in a favour with Saito," Eduardo said. "He does own an airline, now." Eduardo spoke with a slightly sarcastic intonation _._

"Saito doesn't owe me any favours to call in," Dom said. 

Eduardo shrugged. "Men like him have strange notions of honour. He might think differently than you." 

"Hm," Dom looked thoughtful. "I'll try to phone tonight, sound him out."

Eduardo flashed him a smile. Dom ruffled his hair. Eduardo batted his hand away. 

It was something all of them did, even Philippa and James, even _Mada_. No one did it as frequently as Arthur, or as fondly as Mal, her hands gentle as they mussed Eduardo's hair; but no one did it as thoroughly as Dom, either. Eduardo really didn't get it. He didn't understand the fascination all of these people had with messing up his hair. 

Dom grinned at him, blue eyes bright. "You're a good kid," he said, apropos of nothing, and Eduardo blushed bright and red. 

"Yes, well," he muttered. 

All of the food was safely simmering away and out of the danger zone where they could irreparably harm either the flavour or the nutritional content when Philippa woke ahead of schedule. 

She came sleepily out of the nursery on weaving feet and headed unerringly for Eduardo. 

It was something Dom'd had to come to terms with when he had come home, how his children went to Eduardo for comfort when they were sad, sick, sleepy, or confused. Dom leaving had disrupted their confidence in him, and he had to earn that trust back. In the meantime, at least they had Eduardo to go to. 

Philippa's tangled hair stuck up around her sleep-flushed face and she held her arms to Eduardo to be picked up, imperiously. It seemed normal, until she was in his arms; and then she buried her face against his neck and whimpered quietly, which was not normal. Eduardo rubbed her back. "Querida? What's wrong?"

"I had a bad dream," Philippa whispered to him. 

Eduardo carried her into the living room and sat on the armchair again. "What did you dream about?"

"Maman," Philippa whispered. Her face was still hidden from him. "She was in her pretty dress again. And dancing. But far away, and she pulled down the stars, and then the sky fell too, and it was black everywhere."

Eduardo stroked her hair, soothed her. "You're awake now, it's okay," he said. 

"I miss Maman," Philippa said, very softly, then started to cry. 

Eduardo kept stroking her hair and rubbing her back and making _shh, shh_  noises until she calmed enough to fall back to sleep. She was still so small, still such a small weight in his arms, against his chest. He glanced up and saw Dom watching them from the doorway, a shuttered look on his face. "I think Miles' death made more of an impact than we realized," Eduardo said wryly. 

"I hate that she understands this," Dom admitted, quietly. He entered the room, crossed it, and crouched next to the armchair. His hand joined Eduardo's in petting Philippa's hair. "Any of this. That she gets it enough to really miss Mal, to know that Mal isn't coming back. And now neither is her granddad." 

" _You_  came back, though," Eduardo said. "That means something. That's important." 

"I don't know that it's enough," Dom said. 

"It is," Eduardo said. "Dom, you promised her you'd come back, and you did. That means everything." 

Dom ruffled his hair again, breaking the serious moment. Eduardo briefly wondered how many hair rufflings he could endure before going defensively bald. "You're a good kid," Dom repeated, and this time Eduardo just smiled back and replied, serene, "I know." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> padrinho - Portuguese for godfather


	11. Paris, after the wake.

"I think this is the hotel," Ariadne said. She got out her Blackberry and fiddled with it for a few seconds, then glanced up at the hotel again, frowning. "It is," she said. But her tone wasn't happy.   
  
Eames wasn't surprised - the hotel was squalid and ugly and an affront to architects everywhere. He was frankly amazed the city of Paris had allowed it to remain standing. Then they entered together and found that the interior was different than expected. It projected an instant sense of _home_. How in the world it achieved that, Eames couldn't begin to guess. His specialties were related to people and not space. His eyes took on a keen edge as he looked around. Every surface was clean, well-scrubbed; worn, but with endless repetition of care. It took time to build the patina of use that the lobby held. There was a seating area of two loveseats and an assortment of wooden chairs arranged before a stone fireplace to the side of the lobby. There was no obvious way to check into the hotel, and Eames was craning his neck to find a hotel employee of some sort when Arthur appeared, as if by magic, and walked briskly toward them.   
  
He was scowling and looked tired, but more than that, "You're not wearing a suit," Eames said. He felt his intelligence level drop with the obviousness of that statement.  
  
"No," Arthur agreed, and his scowl lightened just a fraction to allow amusement to creep through - laughter, as always, at Eames' expense. "The children seem to be allergic to formal-wear. They've ruined every suit I've ever worn near them."   
  
"Children?" Ariadne blinked.   
  
"This is a family affair," Arthur pointed out. He was wearing a fine-knit dark blue sweater that looked very soft and perfectly tailored gray slacks. He turned his head slightly, indicating the far corner of the lobby. "This way."   
  
There was a stairway hidden behind a curve in the wall, one hidden by virtue of optical illusion. The hotel was stranger than Eames had at first surmised, stranger even than its juxtaposition of unwelcoming exterior and homey interior. He and Ariadne followed Arthur up three flights, possibly to the very top of the hotel, and then through a door. It was just the one door - no hallway; a suite the size of a floor? Perhaps. The door opened into a sitting room with a small, yet complete, kitchen to the side. There was a hallway at the other end of the sitting room that presumably led to bedrooms and bathrooms. Curiouser and curiouser. Less a suite and more, what, a penthouse apartment? But whose?   
  
Dominic Cobb stepped out of a doorway down the hall and came toward them, half-smiling to see Ariadne and half-scowling to see Eames. Eames felt a small curl of vindication. He'd always liked Cobb well enough, until the inception job, where the liking had gone sour. It was satisfying to have taken Ariadne as a pupil from the man, and even more satisfying to know that he was doing a better job of it than Cobb had managed. "Glad you could make it," Cobb said, more to Ariadne than Eames. "Have a seat. Would you like anything to drink? Eat?"  
  
Arthur, Eames noticed, had already ducked into the kitchen and was bringing out a coffee tray. The rich fragrance rose up and soothed the beginnings of a headache that sparked behind Eames' vision. There were also biscuits, chocolate ones. The tray went down on the low-set coffee table and they sat down on opposite sofas, Ariadne and Eames on one and Arthur and Cobb on the other. The furniture was all angled to allow clear line of sight to the front door and down the hall.   
  
"I'll be mother," Eames said lightly, setting the mugs in front of each person and pouring the coffee from its carafe. Each doctored his and her cup until all were satisfied. Eames took a long sip, swallowed, and said, "Condolences."   
  
He'd never known Stephen Miles. He'd barely known his daughter. He didn't much care to know Cobb, either. He was here mostly for Ariadne, who mourned her first mentor with a depth that was surprising for Eames to witness given how the man in question had put her on Cobb's radar and, thus, in imminent danger. And, Eames had to admit, he was here for Arthur. To see Arthur.   
  
Cobb's mouth twisted and he nodded. "Thank you," he said. "It was hardly a shock, but still, Miles was a good man."   
  
Eames doubted very much that this was so, but it didn't do well to speak ill of the dead, so he simply nodded. Ariadne beside him took on a quality of stillness and deep thought. She was dressed in mourning black, with a splash of royal purple around her neck and her hair twisted very elegantly on top of her head; she'd gone to the wake. Eames was in dark gray twill with salmon accents; he hadn't. Cobb was in plaid. He made it look American Classic rather than lumberjack cliche.   
  
To Ariadne, Cobb said, "And he left something for you in his will. I would have given it to you at the wake, but this kind of inheritance requires discretion." At his nod, Arthur stood and disappeared down the hall, ever the butler. He returned within seconds and he was holding in his arms a vintage PASIV device. Ariadne's eyes widened and she gasped. Cobb smiled, mostly just in his eyes, small wrinkles spreading there. "I helped him build that."   
  
There was a pause after the _I_  which was where Eames knew Mal's name would have gone. Even her shade couldn't haunt this moment, though, and Arthur's expression was very tender and warm as he placed the PASIV carefully into Ariadne's grasp. "Careful," Arthur cautioned. "There are some differences with this one than with the one you've been trained on, but in some ways, this model is better. Not as transportable, but there are a few more options to play around with, if you're interested."   
  
Ariadne was running her hands reverently all over the surface of the PASIV device, the look on her face like a child who'd just discovered Christmas. Eames sat back and relaxed as Arthur explained the device to Ariadne. Eames ate a biscuit and found it good, flavourful. He picked up another one, took another bite. His eyebrow raised. It was _very_  good, the kind of good only homemade with loving hands really approximated. He looked speculatively over at Cobb, and then at Arthur. He couldn't imagine either baking.   
  
The front door suddenly blew open with a slam, and a little girl ran in, golden hair flying behind her. No, it was a little boy with long hair, Eames realized a bare moment later when the child called, " _Arthur._ " The boy was wearing a smart jacket and designer trousers and elaborately buckled boots, unbearably posh for a child. He didn't seem to notice the strangers in the room. "Philippa is _puking_."   
  
"I'm not!" Now _that_  was a little girl's voice. And then there was a little girl, perched high in a young man's arms, arms wrapped around his neck, as they also stepped through the front door. The little girl looked very pale, almost sickly, and she added, "Not anymore."   
  
"Sorry, sorry," the young man holding her said. "I think Phil ate something off at the restaurant, I thought it was best to get her back instead of going to visit Mada, you know how she reacts to illness -"   
  
Arthur had already abandoned Ariadne and her inheritance, and had circled around the sofas to approach the new arrivals. The Cobb children and nanny, Eames surmised, though he was surprised that Cobb kept a nanny at all, given his professed commitment to his children. "Here, give her to me," Arthur said and the nanny and Arthur engaged in the strange dance of exchanging a small child between them. Once the little girl was in Arthur's arms she buried her face directly in his neck and tunneled her little fingers in the soft weave of his sweater. She was undoubtedly destroying its fit, but Arthur didn't seem to mind. He was rubbing one hand against her back and murmuring to her softly. Cobb half-stood, hesitating on whether to get up, when Arthur waved him back down. It had seemed, when theoretical, alien for Arthur to hold a child - but in practice, he held her quite naturally. She seemed at home in his arms, cuddling close as he carried her away. Eames felt himself staring after them up until a sharp kick landed on his shin, and he looked down to see the littlest Cobb glaring at him.   
  
"Who are _you?"_ James Cobb said.   
  
"Don't be rude, sweetheart," Cobb said. His son didn't even look his way. Cobb glanced to the nanny, who said, "James, come away. We've talked about going up to strangers."   
  
"He's in our house," James argued, brown eyes stubborn. "That means he's a guest and that means he's not a stranger."   
  
The nanny walked over and unceremoniously picked him up and said, mock-serious, "Your logic has defeated me." He hoisted the little boy in his arms like he'd held the little girl only a few minutes earlier. "Say hello to Mister Eames, then, if you like," and James held out a little hand for Eames to shake, which Eames did with grave ceremony before turning his gaze to the nanny, instead.   
  
The nanny who had known his name. "I don't believe we've met," Eames said slowly. "You have the advantage of me."   
  
"Edward," the nanny introduced himself with a brief smile. "I"ve heard of you, Mister Eames, and Miss Ariadne." Ariadne was staring at him, and his smile softened slightly before he added, "Miles was very fond of you."   
  
So - nanny, but also long-term family friend?   
  
Edward's eyes darted briefly, but tellingly, at the PASIV device in Ariadne's arms. He recognized it.   
  
So - nanny, long-term family friend, and dreamshare agent?  
  
"It's nice to meet you," Ariadne said. She meant the words but Eames knew her well enough to see that she wanted to say something else, instead.   
  
"I see you're all busy," Edward said. "I'll get out of your way and bring this impolite one with me, I think it's time for his bath -"   
  
" _No_ ," James began to wiggle to get free, and Edward promptly, without a blink, flipped him around until he was being carried by his ankles, arms waving wildly.   
  
"Little monsters get carried upside down by their feet," Edward said in the sing-song of constant repetition, and carried him away. Eames watched them go, bemused.   
  
"Sorry about him," Cobb said once they were shut away in what was presumably a bathroom. "James used to be much quieter. He and Philippa have seemed to switch personalities ever since Miles - well."   
  
"People react to grief in strange ways," Eames said, shrugging. "Even child-sized people."   
  
Ariadne nodded sagely even though Eames knew she hadn't lost anyone truly significant to her. Cobb turned all his attention to her. "Since Arthur's occupied, I'll show you the ropes on this, all right?"   
  
The next half hour passed relatively peacefully. Ariadne and Cobb slipped back into student and teacher roles relatively quickly, with Eames paying only as much attention as needed to be sure he would be able to operate the vintage PASIV if so needed. It was a precious and rare inheritance that Ariadne had been bequeathed. PASIV devices weren't exactly thin on the ground, but expertly constructed ones were. And this one, so old yet solidly built, told part of the history of dreamshare: embodied it, in concrete form, the work of the hands and minds of pioneers.   
  
Down the hall, during this interval, Edward bundled James Cobb into and out of the bathroom, presumably washed by the state of the boy's wet hair, disappearing with James into the room Arthur had taken the girl. Philippa.   
  
Now that Eames thought about it, James had come running into the room calling for Arthur. Philippa had clung to first Edward and then Arthur. James had listened to Edward and not Cobb. Cobb had been virtually ignored by both of his children. It seemed he hadn't been forgiven for abandoning them, no matter the circumstances of the abandonment. This shouldn't have been surprising, but Eames was surprised.   
  
By the half hour mark, both Arthur and Edward had left the children's bedroom. Cobb looked up at their reappearance. "We set them up with Disney," Arthur explained. "Philippa's fine, too." He glanced around at Cobb, Eames and Ariadne. Edward was a silent shadow behind his shoulder. "It's getting late in the afternoon," Arthur said. Eames expected to be kicked out with Arthur's next words, but instead Arthur said, "How does everyone feel about an early dinner?"  
  
That was how, five minutes later, Eames found himself standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Arthur and Edward moved within it while Ariadne and Cobb continued to pull apart and reassemble pieces of the vintage PASIV device behind him. It was busy and cosy all at once. Arthur was as authoritative in the kitchen as he was everywhere else, and Edward followed his half-completed gestures as if they were fully articulated orders - the kind of physical short hand that only developed through experience, and often only with partnership and trust. Eames narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Nanny, long-time family friend, dreamshare agent, and - what? _Something_  to Arthur. Arthur was affectionate with Edward. A guiding touch to turn Edward one way rather than the other. A cheerful hair tousle. They were comfortable in each other's space. Not lovers, Eames didn't think, or at least not yet - comfortable but not intimate. Or lovers a long time ago? It was difficult to tell. Arthur was too relaxed with the nanny near him. His dimples showed, which was devastating.   
  
"- _Eames_ ," Ariadne's sharp voice and sharp, pointy fist both hit Eames in the back at the same moment. He startled and turned to look at her, where she was staring up at him with fond exasperation. It was the look of someone who had been saying his name repeatedly for the last few moments. "Let me through," she said. "I need coffee."   
  
Edward glanced over at them and smiled. He was a handsome enough man, Eames supposed, but his smile made him look strangely - goofy. Charming, but not suave. With a smile like that it was no wonder he'd gone into nannying. Children would love that sort of smile. "I'll bring some out," he said. "Don't bother trying to get in here while Arthur's cooking. He's ruthless, you might not make it out alive."   
  
Arthur said something sharp in another language - not French or Spanish, but perhaps the child of an unholy union between the two - and Edward threw back his head and laughed, then said something back in the same tongue.   
  
It was all too fascinating and alluring and sickening.   
  
After this, the dinner passed in a blur. It was presumably delicious based off of the smells and reactions of the other diners, but Eames was too consumed in a fit of juvenile jealousy to really appreciate it. How ridiculous, he thought to himself, to be jealous of the bloody nanny.   
  
The long-term family friend who was potentially involved in dreamshare, though to what extent was anyone's guess. The nanny who Arthur treated as familiarly as if he'd known him since childhood.  
  
At dinner, which they ate in the sitting room as there was no formal dining room, each little Cobblet crept out of their room and took up residence in a lap, Philippa in Arthur's and James in Edward's. They were matching bookends on either side of Cobb, who looked oddly bereft without a child to hold. Philippa stared at Eames and Ariadne in turn, but seemed too shy to say anything to them. She tugged Arthur's head down to whisper in his ear, and he whispered back into hers, so that they seemed like a small universe of two. James fell asleep halfway through his meal and Edward carried him back to his room before coming back to finish his own plate.   
  
It was all so disgustingly domestic that Eames was half-charmed, despite the jealousy. After dinner and coffee, Eames and Ariadne got themselves together to depart. Ariadne said a few hushed words to Cobb who said a few hushed words back. It wasn't difficult to surmise they were discussing of the deceased Dr. Miles. The solemnity of shared grief was as obvious as a brand. To give them some privacy, Eames ducked into the kitchen. Edward was in there with his hands in the sink up to the elbows, soap bubbles foaming everywhere. Arthur was back down the hall getting Philippa to bed, so it was just Eames and Edward in the kitchen, and startlingly awkward.   
  
Eames shifted his feet. He could usually stand silences better than this, but he still couldn't quite gauge the man. He couldn't tell how much of his perspective was trustworthy and how much was clouded by emotion. He liked Edward well enough, for all that he hated the man's guts. Finally he said, for lack of anything better to say, "Thanks again for dinner. You and Arthur make a good team in here."   
  
"Oh," Edward laughed. "That's more Arthur than me, really. He's the only one of us Mal could ever actually teach -" then he flinched and cut off his sentence.  
  
Nanny, long-term family friend, dreamshare agent, close to Arthur, and had known Mal. Known her well enough to have her try to teach him how to cook. Known her well enough to flinch, still, at her memory - known her well enough to have loved her. Love her still? Yes, the pain on Edward's face was that deep.   
  
"Better than my finest attempt," Eames said lightly, defusing the situation. The words were a half-lie. He was a fairly able chef, a better baker. Then, because he'd just realized, "Does this mean those biscuits earlier were Arthur's work?"  
  
"Sure does," Edward said, grateful for the diversion. His smile was back. "He made them this morning, before the wake. Triple batch. You should take some with you when you go and save us from the kids' inevitable cookie-related sugar rush."   
  
Eames grinned. "Edward," he said, "you're a man after my own heart." This was how he came to have a paper bag full of biscuits when Cobb and Arthur and Edward said goodbye to Eames and Ariadne, and he held that bag as carefully to his chest as Ariadne did with the disassembled vintage PASIV device packaged into a retrofitted briefcase as they made their way out of the homey, ugly hotel and back onto the street, where evening had arrived in a lovely street-light sort of glow.   
  
There was a light breeze drifting by that snarled the loose bits of Ariadne's pinned up hair into blowsy curls. "That was a nice enough visit," Eames said philosophically.  
  
"I'll say," Ariadne said, holding her inheritance a little closer with possessive pride. Then she frowned and added, "It's crazy, though. I could have sworn I'd seen Edward before." Then she shrugged and jokingly said, "Maybe in a dream." 


End file.
